Right, Okay...

I'm gettin' a really good feeling today, all right, okay, about the coomin' weekend, right, okay. 'E knows what I'm talkin' about, don' ya? Yeah.

Princess Diana was 'ere yesterday, right, and she told me, yes she did, that it would be a fanTAStic weekend for me. I sense...is there an 'oliday coomin'? A long 'oliday weekend? Do you understand? Yesssss, I sensed it, I did!

Who here likes beer? Is it you, luv?

Right, it's me. See how I did that? Right, okay.

'E knaws. Don' ye, luv?

Aaaahm off to channel the spirit of some cantankerous old drunk.

I'm gonna need me one of these...

Some day, I will own a house with a decent sized yard. And when I do, I'm gonna need me this thing.

I'm saving up!!

It's the "but" that says it.

Don't you hate mixed messages?

The opening phrase of a sentence can be friendly, sweet, and convey all the welcome and love in the world...BUT...you throw a comma, followed by a 'BUT' in there, and no matter what the rest of the sentence says, suddenly the first part of that sentence just doesn't ring true anymore.

See what that did? The BUT negates all the good that the first part of the sentence conveyed.

Here's another example:

"You're welcome to come, but..."

No need to continue, is there? That comma, and then the "BUT" basically negates the welcome part. It's pretty clear, without even reading the second half of the sentence, that you're really about as welcome as the clap. Who's going to go to whatever the event is, when the 'welcome' sounds like that?

I'd rather stay home, twitching with indignation and eating my own ear wax, than show up someplace after an 'invitation' like that.

Reporting live, from some fucking doghouse, for some unknown fucking reason.

For my friend Ellen, on her birthday

I loves me some bloopers.

Last post removed...

...because it wasn't very nice.

Here's something, in the style of the immortal Manolo, that's a little more benign for the kids:

What I'm reading.

What I'm listening to.

What I'm watching.

What I'm wearing.

How I'm feeling.

I need a vacation.

Open letter to Lee's sub shop, in Harvard Square

Dearest Lee's:

You guys are one of the area's great little finds. In an area with far too many pretentious, overpriced restaurants and one too many Au Bon Pains, you are one of the few down to earth, unpretentious, affordable little food establishments. You make a great burger, and your simple little grilled cheese sandwiches are as comforting as home made. We love you for that.

But you should know this: no matter how finely you chop it up, and no matter how much mayonnaise you put on your sandwiches to disguise it, sealegs is NOT crab meat. You may fool some tourist from the midwest, but you will NEVER fool a New England native. It was tasty, believe me, but the sandwich I just ate had as much to do with real crab meat as...well, as Chicken of the Sea has to do with chicken.

So you can just knock it off. Change the sign to read "seafood salad," WITH the quotes, and it'll be more honest.

K? Thanks,

A good, but not stupid, customer.

Friends don't let friends...

A friend has pointed out that hey, indeed, ONCE in my life, I did paint my toenails. Once, for ONE party, a dress-up affair for which I actually (GASP) bought and WORE sandals. Fucking ridiculous, as it was basically a party for the softball team. Thought we'd all dress up and show off our ripped and toned bods.

Ghey.

Afterwards I whined and moaned about getting the polish OFF of the toes, which was a NIGHTMARE (fuckers have indentations and CORNERS, damn them) and gave the sandals to charity. I have kept the skirt, because it's black, and you never know when you're going to need something like that for a funeral or job interview.

So yes, in fact, I HAVE, once or twice in my life, worn a dress, did something to my hair besides wash it, put on make-up, worn bling, the whole effing shooting match.

And I looked fucking hot, all right?

The point is this: I didn't like it. And I never will.

Folk music is the end of a dog's...

...weiner!!!

Bet you all thought I'd say cock, didn't you?

Ever notice these dreary old birkenstock sporting, patchouli smelling hippies always like to tell you the entire goddamn story of how/why/when they wrote the frigging song before they sing it?

"I wrote this one about a friend of mine who was just a beautiful, beautiful person, and we found out on his 40th birthday that he had cancer and just handled the whole thing with such...sniff...grace. Back in '94, we were at their lake house, and the kids were splashing around in the lake and giggling and just being beautiful, while we were sitting around talking about life and death, and the beautiful possibilities of those kids as they grew, and how much they meant to him. And then this storm broke over the lake and we all just stayed there, enjoying the cleansing rain and were waiting for the rainbow and...."

Holy Mary Mother of...for the love of Pete, JUST PLAY THE FUCKING SONG. No, wait, DON'T bother playing it. We KNOW the whole story already now, and plus, you're a dreary, hippie folk artist, so the song is going to SUCK anyway.

GAHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Happy Friday, everyone. I'm going out to kick a busker in the groin and get a beer.

Kisses!



EDIT!!!!!!!!!!!!! Just got back from a stroll around the square. All my 'favorite' buskers were out. (Favorite being ironic, for those of you who are irony-challenged.) There was the "Captain-Hemp-America" douchebag, with his flag-clad puppets and patchouli stench, and that horrible fat old folkie with no ankles in the sandals and floppy hat. You remember, the one who is (by my best guess) female, but who sings "Take the Ribbon from Your Hair" with enough tremolo to vibrate your fillings. It just...hurts.

No excuses...

...but a good rationalization goes a long way.

Excuse: I'm fat because of genes, so I'm going to eat this macaroni & cheese because there's nothing I can do about it and might as well start REALLY eating healthier tomorrow.

Rationalization: My body wants to be fat, the bitch, but right now, she isn't. Anyway, I was up at 6:30 this morning working out and have eaten nothing so far today but a banana and a slice of grapefruit. So even though I've got a few pounds/inches still to lose, I'm going to eat this macaroni & cheese because the line for something healthy was too long, and I need to load up on some carbs for my 2.5 mile walk home after work.

See how that works?

Fuck off, it works for me.

Hands up! Who thinks I'm a weirdo??

Funny how the mind works, innit?

I have a brain that's wired differently than other women's, I think. No knock on anyone else, or myself, and I'm definitely not bragging or being smug in any way. I don't think my brain works better, more intelligently, faster, etc., than other women's... I just have come to realize that the things that other women spend brain energy and time on would never even cross my mind, and this actually surprises me sometimes. It shouldn't be very surprising, I guess. Since grade school, I've been considered...well, let's just say...odd...by my classmates.

Here's an example:

Teacher: Girl-child one, what do you want to be when you grow up?
Girl-child one: A teacher (or nurse or ballerina.)
Teacher: How nice. And you, Andraste? What would you like to be when you grow up?
Andraste: An enigma.
Classmates: (rolling eyes) What's she even talking about?
Andraste: Don't you GET IT? Ahhhhahahahahahahahahahaha. Ooohhhhh...sometimes I just kill, huh?

Maybe they did get it, it just wasn't funny. I don't know.

Fast forward to my teen years.

Random male friend: Do you want to go to the prom with me?
Andraste: Fuck off. Let's rent "The Kids are Alright" and get pished instead.

And now:

Husband: What do you want for Christmas? Some nice earrings or a necklace? A day at the spa?
Andraste: A power drill.

Sister-in-law: Do you have a nail file?
Andraste: No, but there's some sandpaper in my toolbox.

Friend: I think I'd like a French pedicure.
Andraste: (thinks) I wonder if the Delta-32 gene mutation is prevalent in the Canuck population in Maine, or whether the French immigrants of the 16th century missed developing it because they emigrated before the plague years... what the fuck is a French pedicure?


I said odd. I didn't say I wasn't pretentious.

How the Red Sox screwed a million fans in one weekend.

Today, I am, quite frankly, a little pissed at the Red Sox organization. I will outline, below, exactly what they fucked up this weekend (not including losing two to the Rangers - Thank you, David Ortiz, for saving game 1 yesterday. You can step away from the rest of them, because I don't want you to absorb any of the bad karma I'm about to unleash.)

Because of an early May rainout, the Sox and Rangers were to play two games on Saturday. One make-up game at 1:20, one regularly scheduled game at 8pm.

Saturday dawns wet, cold, miserable. The rain is relentless all morning long. We KNOW Sunday's weather is going to be better. Do the Red Sox postpone game 1 and reschedule it as part two of a double-header on Sunday? No, they do not. We wait all morning for them to do the right thing and reschedule, so that people who are traveling great distances can stay home.

At 12pm, still no announcement, we get a cab to the park. We HAVE to go, because we have tickets to both games, and we're meeting another couple in between the games, to give them our tickets to game two over some beers and dinner. We get to Tequila Rain, order some beer and food, and settle in to wait for the announcement that we KNOW is going to come. And we wait, and we wait, and we wait.

No announcement.

It gets to be 3pm, and there is nothing but dripping rain to be heard out of Yawkey Way. At this point, having game one puts game two in jeopardy, because there is no way they can play one game, and have time to ready the field for another, while getting 35,000 people OUT of the park, and then getting ANOTHER 35,000 people INTO the park. And that's not even counting if the game goes into extra innings or just takes longer than usual.

Still...they are silent. Stay with me, this gets confusing.

FINALLY - an announcement comes to us at the table, from our friendly waitress. "It's unofficial," says she, "but I just heard they're going to play game 1 at 6:15, and then have game two tomorrow at noon. Then Sunday's afternoon game will be at 5:15."

This turns out, indeed, to be the case. How fucking stupid is that? Now, all those people on the road for game two have to turn around (providing they got the announcement in time) and then COME BACK for a noon game on Sunday.

We make our decision. We'd been drinking since 12:30, already blown over $100 on food and beer at Tequila Rain, and were, quite frankly, too wet, cold, drunk and angry to go to the game. The couple coming in - FROM CONNECTICUT - is now too close to Boston to turn around and go home. So, we give them the tickets for the afternoon game, and we hold onto the night game tickets, thinking we'll either use them (yeah, right, noon on a Sunday, after drinking all day Saturday...I'm not fucking getting up for that!) or put out an e-mail to a bunch of people when we get home, and see if anyone wants them.

The couple we give the tickets to go to the game. They've been on the road for 3 hours to get to this game, and now they're anxious for the fun to start.

AND THE RED SOX, IN THEIR INFINITE WISDOM, SHUT DOWN BEER SALES INSIDE THE PARK.

Their reasoning, I guess, was that they'd been selling beer since 11:15 in the morning...oh yeah, which is right about the time THAT THEY SHOULD HAVE BEEN CANCELLING THE FUCKING GAME IN THE FIRST FUCKING PLACE. Honestly. It defies common sense.

The nature of fantasy is that it can't be fulfilled. You'll only be disappointed. But oh, the fantasy.

Hooray!

This morning's fuck-you-up-just-before-the-alarm-goes-off-dream, since it's Saturday, was not interrupted by the alarm.

And it involved me, this guy, and a swimming pool.

That's all I'll say about it.

Yesssss.....

Heading out to the game soon...providing they don't call it for rain. They'll let us get there, spend an hour drinking $7 beers, and THEN call it.

Hate that.

...And...there's the cab.

Comfort food, comforting drinks...It's Friday, and I've worked hard this week, so I'll drink what I like.

Terribly original, I know. "Oh, God," you say, "Andraste's got a picture of a Guinness on her blog, for like, the tenth time since she started to blog. Ho hum."

But listen, it's the end of another shitty, rainy, cold, busy week here in the hub. And Guinness is definitely the top choice on days like this.

It's June, might as well be April. And I'm taking comfort in the familiar, and in things that warm and soften my cold, hard little soul.

Also, this website is comforting. Fucking CUTE hedgehog, man. I think I want one. I would call him...Hal, or Bob...or NORMAN.

Here are five little things that I find comfort in, in this crazy world. Five things that are relatively small, but somehow have the ability to make me say "life's really not that bad, is it."

1. Clean bedsheets.
2. Finding a clean public restroom while traveling, and before I'm desperate.
3. Waking to find my big black cat, Luna, with her beautiful button face on my shoulder, and hearing that purr.
4. Local Hero.
5. Cheese.

Fuck, I'm wistful now.

To the vicious old cow who was protesting something or other in Harvard Square yesterday, who told me I should be ashamed of myself because of where I work..."Bite my ass, you miserable, judgmental old bitch. You don't know me, my belief system, how much good the people I work with and for actually DO in the world. Take a good long look at yourself, and your own sense of privilege and entitlement. Also...Get a job."

I'm melting...meeellllttttiiiinnnnnggggg....

You curs-ed brat!

...what they said...

So, blogger was down most of yesterday, and I couldn't update this, comment on anyone else's stuff, or even see the pictures on most people's blogs.

Therefore, all the especially witty remarks everyone else seemed to be able to make yesterday? Let's just say I thought it first, but couldn't get in to say it. Meh.


Here's something my brother sent me yesterday. I've edited it with my own personal touches, and present it here, for your edification. I am going to print it, get it notarized, and make really frigging sure my husband has a copy should anything disastrous happen to me, and I suggest that anyone who doesn't want to end up like that Terry Schiavo do the same.

***************************************************************

I, __________________________, being of sound mind and body, do not wish to be kept alive indefinitely by artificial means. Under no circumstances should my fate be put in the hands of pinhead politicians who couldn't pass ninth-grade biology if their lives depended on it or lawyers/doctors interested in simply running up the bills.

If a reasonable amount of time passes and I fail to ask for at least one of the following:

______a Bloody Mary
______a Guinness
______a Vodka and Tonic
______Macaroni & Cheese
______any of my pets
______the remote control
______a Bowl of ice cream
______the sports page or a book
______Chocolate
______Salt and vinegar potato chips

it should be presumed that I won't ever get better.

When such a determination is reached, I hereby instruct my appointed person and attending physicians to pull the plug, reel in the tubes and call it a day. My remains can then be shot out of a cannon over the next Republican National Convention.

Signature: ___________________________
Date: ___________________________

Don't disrespect my animals

I don't understand these people who insist on dividing people up between "cat people" and "dog people." What the fuck is that about?

Okay, I get that there are some people who like one and not the other, and sure, if you're allergic to one or the other or have met nothing but 'mean' individuals of either species, you may not relish the idea of being around them. Perfectly understandable. But for the most part, I think people are "pet people" or "non-pet people." Furthermore, "pet people" have the pets they have because of lifestyle, living space, economics (yes, it's a LOT more expensive to feed an Irish Wolfhound than a cat, let's face it), and biology.

Because I own three cats makes me no more a "cat person" than anyone else. I LOVE dogs and would have one in an instant if I had a house, the money, the time, and the inclination to spend as much time with my pets as a dog needs. You bet your sweet ass! And I wouldn't have a dog or dogs INSTEAD of cats. They're just a different pet with different requirements. The fact that I think cats are a smarter animal in general has nothing to do with anything...just an opinion.

I am a Pet Person first and foremost. I always have to have some kind of animal in my life. Grew up with a dog (the greatest dog EVER, mind you, irreplaceable collie named...yes, Lassie... genius), cats, and in my life at various times I've had rabbits, guinea pigs...even had a roommate with snakes, though I don't really think snakes should be owned as pets. (Just don't like the idea of feeding live animals to another live animal. I think people who enjoy that are a bit sick. That's another post for another day.)

Currently, I own cats because they're EASY. They don't need to be walked, they don't need ME to be on THEIR feeding and exercise schedule, they're small, quiet (for the most part) and don't eat my shoes. I can go out for impromptu after work beers and not worry about finding a steaming pile of "why'd-you-leave-me-all-alone-all-this-time" when I get home a little later than usual. Also, I have cats because I'm not allergic to them, they make me laugh EVERY SINGLE DAY, they relax me, and there is nothing...NOTHING more comforting than a rainy Sunday cuddle on the couch with a purring kitty on my stomach - especially if I have cramps.

So don't be dissing my pets just because they might make you sneeze and you've met some cats with shitty personalities. Every single cat is different, just like every person is different.

You guys? If I lived in the country, had the space, time, money, and didn't have to work out of the house 40 hours a week, I would totally...TOTALLY have a horse or two, some bunnies, a few dogs, maybe a pot-bellied pig and some poultry, as well as my current collection of putty-tats. I know my loving spouse would shudder at the thought, but he loves the cats, and he's a soft-hearted guy, so he'd end up being just as attached to them as I would be..

Bah!

Harvard Square...SUCKS!!!

Five stores where you can buy a cell phone, but no place...NONE...where you can buy a fucking head of lettuce. Sandals, flip-flops and Ugg (ugh!) boots everwhere you look, but not a decent, non-ugly pair of shoes, for any money. Tons of places (Urban Outfitters and Jasmine Sola, I'm looking at YOU) to buy ugly, torn up looking goddamn RAGS, and spend a year's salary on a terrycloth tube top (I ask you) and NOT A GODDAMN PAIR OF LEVIS???

Don't even get me STARTED on the subject of the fucking GAP. I have tons of gift cards people gave me for Xmas and my last birthday, probably a couple hundred bucks to blow, but I cannot...CANNOT shop in there. Whatever happened to colors people can wear ? You know? Black, gray, navy, green? Looks like a goddamn clown car exploded in there. Everything...EVERYTHING is blinding yellow, hot pink, orange and teal. ORANGE AND TEAL???

Orange and teal. I can't believe that's what's fashionable now. I won't believe it.

Fartbiters.